Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
I never realized exercise equipment qualified as grounds for divorce until the day I dragged an elliptical machine home from the consignment shop and parked it in the living room.
Normally, when a female hunts down small prey—like a juicy designer outfit—she’ll wait until her significant other is snoring on the sofa to sneak the fresh kill past enemy lines. Once it’s safely inside her closet, she’ll cover her tracks by shredding (or, ideally, burning) price tags, receipts and store surveillance tapes—anything that might upset her mate, who already thinks she owns enough clothes and shoes to outfit a small continent of indigenous bush people.
If she times it right, confrontation can be avoided until the outfit makes its public debut and her mate gives it the inaugural eyeball. Then, in the same solemn tone judges use to sentence mass murderers, he’ll ask the inevitable: “Is that new?”
With the innocence of a newborn and a tinge of indignation, the female will respond: “What, this old thing?”
Technically, she’s correct. It’s not new. That’s the beauty of consignment shopping for clothes. But big game, such as exercise equipment that weighs 400 pounds, stands 6-feet tall and takes three beefy guys to deliver, presents different problems.
The moment the machine arrived, my husband—a man whose demeanor is usually so quiet, steady and composed, I find myself checking his pulse—erupted in a massive hissy fit (magnitude 8.5, easy).
He didn’t even ask if it was new. He was too busy circling it, waving his arms and stomping. I haven’t seen teeth clenched that tight since I surprised him with our fourth dog, which was also used.
“What were you thinking? We have enough exercise junk to sell gym memberships,” he protested, still surveying the monster. Hey, since it’s bigger than a moose, let’s call it Bullwinkle.”
My husband had a point. The tall, curved handrails did resemble antlers rising above the sofa. And Bullwinkle seemed a trifle larger in our living room than back in the store.
But that’s why bigger is better when it comes to fitness equipment. Gadgets that fold conveniently for hiding under a bed usually stay there until you sell your house. But there’s no hiding anything as bulky as Bullwinkle. It’s the elephant (or moose) in the room, silently nagging until you hop on.
As for all the other exer-stuff, there are legitimate reasons they needed to be replaced:
The Total Gym—For nearly a week, I bounced, dipped, chinned and lunged on my Total Gym, because Christy Brinkley looked so fabulous jumping around on hers. But she never had to haul it off to a closet between workouts.
In the TV ads, I saw a teeny, Tinker Bell-sized woman dismantle her gym in three seconds flat. Maybe she had a different model, because mine never folded without a fight. So whenever company came by, I’d bury it under a few tons of clothes and eventually forgot to unbury
it. My Total Gym is still the best laundry sorter I’ve ever owned.
Exercise bikes—A few years ago, home invaders glued some poor guy to his stationary bike while they robbed him of everything, including his pants. It happened overseas and the news reports didn’t specify how long he was stuck there naked, but the pry-off procedure sounded painful. Of course, the odds of a Crazy Glue attack in South Carolina are probably remote, but why take chances? It would be much harder to glue someone to Bullwinkle.
Suzanne Somers’ Thighmaster—This shouldn’t count, because it was a gift—the same gift many females received from hopeful males the year Suzanne started squeezing it in commercials airing every five minutes. It didn’t appeal to me, so I showed Hubby how he could wear it as a hat. But for anyone who wants to crack walnuts with her knees, I’m sure it’s a fine piece of equipment.
Jan A. Igoe is a wife, mother, newspaper editor, humorist and illustrator. She lives in Horry County.